


For you royally have failed

by Apuzzlingprince



Series: Witcher Fanfics [15]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Bondage, M/M, Rough Oral Sex, Sadism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-01
Updated: 2018-07-01
Packaged: 2019-05-26 00:32:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14988869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Apuzzlingprince/pseuds/Apuzzlingprince
Summary: When the lashings were finished and the witcher was escorted – or dragged, rather – back to his cell, Roche took it upon himself to tend to the witcher’s wounds. Generally this was a job for lesser staff, but Geralt was a special case. He retrieved a bucket from the cleaning supplies and filled it with three parts water and one part salt, as was custom. It served two purposes: to inflict pain and to stave off infection, ensuring their captives did not succumb to their wounds. This wasn't a concern for the witcher; Roche knew his mutations made him resilient to illness, but he would receive the salt water all the same. He could not be seen to be giving Geralt special treatment by his men.After Geralt is whipped, Roche takes it upon himself to wash his back. That isn't all he ends up doing.





	For you royally have failed

**Author's Note:**

> I thought it about time I did a fic for these two. It's surprisingly difficult to think up ideas for this pairing... so I hope people enjoy what I came up with!

They gave the witcher ten lashes. Less than Foltest’s subjects would have liked, but it was all Roche was willing to let his men inflict during the questioning process. He wasn’t yet bought on the belief that Geralt had killed their king and he had no desire to flay an innocent man, particularly one his felled king had held in high esteem. Should his confidence turn out to be misplaced, his leniency was easily rectified; he only needed say the word for the witcher to be beaten, hung and displayed in the city square for all to gawk at, perhaps with a bucket of rotting fruit nearby for the townspeople to desecrate the body with. A fitting end for a kingslayer, Roche thought.

When the lashings were finished and the witcher was escorted – or dragged, rather – back to his cell, Roche took it upon himself to tend to the witcher’s wounds. Generally this was a job for lesser staff, but Geralt was a special case. He retrieved a bucket from the cleaning supplies and filled it with three parts water and one part salt, as was custom. It served two purposes: to inflict pain, and to stave off infection, ensuring their captives did not succumb to their wounds. This wasn't a concern for the witcher; Roche knew his mutations made him resistant to illness, but he would receive the salt water all the same. He could not be seen to be giving Geralt special treatment by his men.

The cell door had been left unlocked for him. He pushed it open with a boot and set the bucket down next to the witcher, eyeing him as he wrung out a rag. Geralt stared at him, his expression showing little sign of pain. 

“The kings commander,” said the witcher, his voice surprisingly level for someone who had just undergone a whipping. “When did sponge baths become part of the job?”

“As you can see, I’ve no sponge.” With his rag freshly squeezed, Vernon stood, abandoning subtlety and looking over Geralt from head to toe. The blood on his back had begun to dry and become glutinous. It wasn’t going to be pleasant for Geralt when he started scrubbing. “I’m surprised the first words out of your mouth weren’t a claim of innocence,” continue Roche, circling around to Geralt’s back and folding a hand over Geralt’s hip, stilling him. “My men tell me you have been insistent on that front.”

“Wouldn’t you be in my position?”

“I wouldn’t be in your position,” said Roche. He applied the rag to Geralt’s shoulder and swept it down. Geralt inhaled sharply, but made no attempt to evade the cloth, as prisoners had been known to do in the past. His endurance was impressive.

He didn’t speak again until Roche withdrew to adjust his grip on the rag. “No, I suppose you wouldn’t be,” said Geralt. “That mean you don’t believe me either?”

“Whether or not I believe you is inconsequential.” Roche moved to his opposite shoulder, giving it the same treatment. This time Geralt managed to remain silent. The only indication he gave of pain was a slight tensing of his shoulders, which promptly fell loose once Roche had knelt to clean the blood off his rag.

“How so?”

“The people of Temeria want blood. There is a good chance I will need to spill it regardless of what I believe.”

Geralt cursed, and his chosen words somehow managed to be more repugnant than anything Roche had ever heard from his soldiers.

“Shouldn’t have involved myself with a king,” Geralt muttered. “Everyone who dabbles in politics ends up with their neck in a noose and their head on a pike.”

Roche laughed. “Beheadings and hangings are generally reserved for lower society, Geralt. Politicians are killed in a much more bombastic manner.”

“And kingslayers?”

“Do you really want to spend your final hours thinking about what awaits you?”

Geralt fell silent. With his rag moderately more fresh, Vernon resumed the task of washing Geralt's back, digging his fingers into the glutinous red to stop it from clinging to the edges of Geralt's wounds. Save for the occasional hitch in his breath, the witcher remained surprisingly stoic. Vernon had known few people to tolerate pain so well. Most prisoners would have, at the very least, started to whimper.

He found himself staring at what little he could see of Geralt’s face as he worked, seeking a reaction. It was an involuntary action, learned over numerous years of being an interrogator, but he didn’t try to stop himself when he recognised what he was doing.

He moved his hand to the witcher’s lower back and dug in. The witcher’s brow pinched and a bead of sweat trailed down from his hairline, dropping off his chin. Roche saw his lips part and heard soft, shallow breaths and – oh, fuck, he was getting aroused.

There was always some pleasure to be had in exerting dominance over powerful men, particularly men as stubborn and arrogant as Geralt, but it generally wasn’t sexual in nature. Not for Roche, at least. Perhaps it was his looks; the milky white hair and the bright yellow eyes did have a certain appeal, and his face was nicely sculpted. Or perhaps his arousal had nothing at all to do with Geralt's appearance and his mother had simply impressed more deviance on him than he had thought. It was hard to say. Whatever the reason, Roche found himself swelling in his trousers.

He knew from Foltest's ramblings that all witcher's had enhanced senses, and he was suddenly gripped by the thought that Geralt would be able to smell his arousal. It should have been a disconcerting thought; instead, the idea _excited_  Roche, made him harder. 

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, clutching at what little self-control he had left. It had been steadily dwindling since the death of his king.

“There will be more beatings to come,” said Roche with difficulty. He spoke softly so to be able to hear Geralt’s laboured breathing. “I suggest you feign unconsciousness. They’ll lose interest.”

Geralt hung his head. “Think I’d rather take the beating.”

“I’m not surprised," said Roche. "Foltest spoke of you quite often. He called you 'the most obstinate guard he's ever had', which is why he liked you, I imagine."

He wrung out the rag again. The water in the bucket had turned pink. It was usually at this point that the water was dumped on a prisoners back and normal duties resumed, but Roche had no desire to end their conversation. He liked the sounds the witcher was making; he liked the heat that radiated off his mutilated skin; he liked the sweat that had gathered on his forehead and the nape of his neck, and so rarely did Roche get to indulge in carnal things. Granted, he generally worked with squirrels, and he’d sooner fuck a hot poker than put his cock anywhere near one of those cretins. 

There wasn’t a great deal of blood left to clean away. Something Geralt was ignorant to, but it wouldn’t have made much difference even if he had been aware. Roche would have continued cleaning him under the pretence of continuing their conversation.

“There going to be any kind of trial?” asked Geralt, his voice delightfully breathy. Vernon’s gaze dropped to his face and caught a flickering of his eyelashes.

“Trust me, witcher: you won’t want a trial.” A swipe with the rag and this time Geralt made a little sound, something of a whimper. It was enough to tent Roche’s trousers. He had to pause to collect himself before he continued. “It won’t change the outcome of your fate.”

Geralt shook his head, clearly angry. “To think I fought for this fucking-“

“Careful there,” warned Roche, pressing down, eliciting a low groan. “You’re in no position to be speaking badly of our country or our king.”

“Yours,” Geralt bit out. “Witcher’s are neutral.”

“Are they, Geralt of Rivia, former right hand of the king?”

“Don’t be a smartass.”

“It’s a little hard when you make it so easy.”

Geralt snorted. “I’m sure you’re aware I’m not really Rivian, and I’d little choice but to join Foltest’s war.”

“I know precious little about you or your motivations, Geralt," said Roche. "I haven’t been privy to your life’s story, and neither have you, apparently. How is the amnesia these days?”

“Fuck off,” said Geralt amiably.

For that, Roche pressed down particularly hard, drawing forth another groan. The witcher even arched his back a little and Roche was reminded of his erection by a particularly hard throb. Other methods of making that nimble back arch flashed through his mind and were then fought into submission. He started to withdraw, to discard the rag and bucket and end this before he did something he would regret, and then Geralt bit out, “Sadist,” and that gave Roche pause.

He could not tell if what the witcher was accusing him of was _sexual_ sadism, but he found the prospect didn’t bother him at all. It could be used as an excuse – to do what, exactly, he wasn’t yet sure, but both of them would soon find out if the witcher confirmed his suspicions.

“And what if I am? It makes me efficient at my job,” he said quietly, taking care to control the tone of his voice. He managed to speak without a single inflection. “Just as your fatalism makes you efficient at yours.”

“If you’re about to give me the ‘we aren’t so different’ speech, save it,” said Geralt bitingly. “I’ve heard that enough from better people.”

“Better people? I’m hurt. What exactly have I done to deserve your hostility?”

Geralt twisted in his bindings, attempting to make eye contact. Roche would have walked around to his front, except there was no chance Geralt would miss the tent in Roche’s trousers, which was only getting bigger. “You’re a sadist, for starters.”

“So you’ve said.”

“Just goes hand in hand with the sexual depravity, doesn’t it?”

So he _had_ noticed.

Vernon indulged in a private smile, tossing the rag into the bucket. 

“What gave me away?”

“You’re not as subtle as you think,” said Geralt. “Met plenty of men like you. Even killed a few. I know the signs.”

Roche arched an eyebrow, though he knew Geralt couldn’t see it. He was compelled by habit. “Men like me – you know next to nothing about me, Geralt.”

“I know enough.” He swung back, and Roche choked on a breath as Geralt's ass brushed his crotch. The barest of touches, but still enough to drive away any lingering inhibitions Roche had.  

Roche reached up and loosened the chains enough to send Geralt crashing to his knees, a helpless heap that groaned in the dirt and filth. He didn't give Geralt the opportunity to orientate himself before wrenching his arms back and bringing his shackled wrists together, tying them in place with the chain.  While normally Geralt _might_ have been able to overpower him, he was in no state to do so right now. 

The moment Geralt had recovered enough to bring his legs up under himself, Roche twisted his fingers into Geralt's hair and pulled Geralt to his crotch, his cool lips brushing the straining fabric. The witcher looked good on his knees, and even better with his face against Roche’s bulge. Roche would have liked to preserve the sight, but lacking any means to do so, he would simply have to rely on memory.

He didn’t proceed to fucking Geralt’s face right away. He indulged himself in the sight of Geralt, rubbing his cock into the witcher’s jaw and over his chin, letting the outline of the head jostle on Geralt's parted lips. Geralt simply sat there, providing no resistance. He didn’t even protest when Roche pried his mouth open and ground his bulge against Geralt's tongue, giving the man a taste of what was to come. Submission seemed to come to him easily, and it suited him. Roche had to wonder if Foltest had trained him into this. Foltest did tend to keep his consorts as close as he had kept Geralt.

Somehow, the thought wasn’t as pleasing to him as he had expected it to be. If there was anyone he should have been happy to share with, it was Foltest, but his arousal flagged a little at the thought despite that. He quickly dismissed the topic as preposterous; Foltest had never had eyes for any man. As far as Roche knew, he had always favoured women, and small, feminine ones at that. Granted, so had Roche, but…

Unable to wait any longer, he tore open his trousers with one hand and freed his cock with the other, giving it two hard strokes to make sure it was good and hard before grasping Geralt by the ponytail and wrenching his head back. He shoved his cock down Geralt’s throat and watched with pleasure as he struggled to adjust to its girth, choking around it. He pushed Geralt down to the base, his cheek slapping Roche’s pelvis, his nose brushing Roche’s public hair. The short breaths he drew in through his nose warmed Roche's skin.

While the intrusion was clearly difficult to adjust to, Geralt made no complaints, and nor did he try to pull away. His jaw slackened and he looked up at Roche through his eyelashes, watching him and waiting. He yielded so easily.

“Suppose they weren’t kidding when they called you the king’s dog, hm?” He thrust languidly, butting the soft back of Geralt’s throat. “I’ve had a few names of my own. Care to guess what they were?”

Geralt could not reply, so full as he was. Roche smiled.

“I hope you have no illusions about a blowjob getting you out of this, Geralt.” Though he was nowhere near done, he drew back enough for his cock to pop free, allowing it to rest against Geralt, draped over Geralt’s cheek and dripping with saliva. Geralt had to close an eye to avoid getting pre-cum in it.

“Didn’t think so,” Geralt croaked, swallowing repeatedly in an attempt to soothe his abused throat.

“Then why do this? It doesn’t benefit you.”

“Doesn’t it?”

That created more questions than it answered and Roche found it galling. He gave Geralt’s hair a good yank. That little ponytail of his was a perfect handle. Roche had always thought it ridiculous; what self-respecting man would wear their hair like that? But he didn’t much mind it in this context.

“If you don’t feel like being forthcoming, we’ll dispense with the talking.” He moved the tip of his cock to Geralt’s lips, resting it on his tongue, and waited. Geralt didn’t reply.

With a sigh, Roche pulled Geralt back onto his cock until he was fully sheathed and held Geralt in place, rocking into his throat. There was no reason to get worked up over Geralt’s potential motivations when his cock was getting nice and wet. It wasn’t often that he had the opportunity for such things, particularly with men, and he would relish the soft, warm mouth while he still had access to it. By tomorrow, it may very well be too mangled for such activities.

He watched Geralt’s face carefully as he moved, enjoying the tinge of red in his ears. He brushed a finger over the shell of one and it was warm to the touch. So the mutant _could_ blush. With how sickly pale he was, he’d assumed those capillaries to be damaged beyond repair, but evidently that wasn’t the case.

Geralt whimpered around his cock after a particularly hard thrust and he had to grit his teeth to avoid coming then and there. Not yet. He wanted this to last. There was a good chance this would be the only time he would ever get to use the witcher’s throat like this and he wasn’t going to squander the opportunity.

He dragged Geralt back to the base and listened carefully to him, to the shallow breaths pulled in through his nose; to his strangled attempts to swallow around Roche’s girth; to the little whimpering sounds he would make if Roche pressed too hard. What a delightful man. He gathered by Geralt's flushed face and loose jaw that Geralt was _enjoying_ the way he was being used. With how stubborn and prideful the witcher could be, thinking himself above even the demands of a king, Roche never would have guessed he was this much of a whore; wonders never cease.

Roche brought his boot up, dragging it along the inside of Geralt’s thigh before closing it over Geralt’s crotch. Even through the thick leather he could feel the bulge that had developed. He gave it a little stroke with the heel of his boot and Geralt moaned, sending vibrations running up the length of Roche's cock. A surge of arousal rocked through Roche like a bolt of lightning. He just barely managed to close his teeth around a moan of his own. With the complex relationship he had with sex, courtesy of his upbringing, it was a habit of his to stifle any sounds he made during sex.

Vernon Roche did not moan: he growled, he snarled, and he hissed. He never moaned. Moaning, as far as he was concerned, was something whores did, something his mother had done, something he’d had to block out in his youth by curling up in bed with a pillow over his head and something that had always been preceded by ‘honey, stay in your room and don’t come out no matter what you hear, okay?’. He might have been a son of a whore, but he would never be a whore.

He only liked it when his partners moaned. Most of all, he liked it when the sound was choked, strangled, strained. He had often fantasied about throttling the men who frequented his mother’s room in his youth… having never managed to bring himself to do so, he found other ways to enact his fantasies: by covering peoples mouths, by choking them on his cock, by asphyxiating them, gagging them, smothering them – and sometimes he took it too far, but that wouldn’t happen with Geralt. Witcher’s were designed to be durable. He was pistoning into the back of Geralt’s throat and tearing his fingers into Geralt’s hair and rasping his boot over the witcher’s swelling cock and Geralt had neither protested nor given any great sign of discomfort. Even if Geralt’s limit hadn’t been well beyond his reach, one couldn’t expect him to give too much leniency to a possible kingslayer. 

He gave Geralt's crotch a good stroke with his boot and another bolt shot up his abdomen as Geralt moaned. The hand in Geralt’s hair shook. He pushed harsh breaths through clenched teeth and slowly drew his hips back, taking a few seconds to wind down from an approaching climax before snapping them forward hard enough to rock Geralt’s entire body. He did it again, and again, and slowly set into a rhythm that was suitably rough and ruthless, complimenting the hard grind of his boot on Geralt’s cock.

He might not have known a great deal about the witcher, but he knew this much: the man knew how to take a cock.

When he felt a shudder tear through the witcher and saw a wet patch develop on the crotch of the witcher's trousers, Roche couldn’t help but follow with his own climax. He wrenched Geralt’s head back, dislodging his cock, and got it past Geralt's lips just in time to spill himself onto Geralt’s jaw and mouth. His cum was almost the same colour as Geralt’s skin, distinguishable only by the scattering of hard bristles of an undeveloped beard. He drank in the sight of Geralt bound and splattered in his cum for a few seconds before he withdrew, tucking himself back into his trousers.

The witcher slumped over the moment he was permitted to do so, breathing hard and swallowing repeatedly. Vernon heaved him to his feet and tied him back into place while he was still struggling for composure. Paranoia drove him to act during opportune moments, though he knew if the witcher had truly desired to harm him, he would have done so while Roche’s cock was in his mouth. It was hard to imagine a more vulnerable place to be attacked. 

He wrung out the rag in the bucket and used it to clean Geralt’s face. While it was a nice look on Geralt, Roche had no desire to deal with the looks his men would give him if he were to leave Geralt sullied.

“We’ll talk again later,” said Roche, retrieving the bucket. “Tomorrow, perhaps. There is work to be done.”

“Perhaps?” Geralt croaked. “Just how long am I going to be here?”

“Until the interrogations are finished and I have time to proceed in their place,” answered Roche.

“More interrogations?”

“You didn’t think there would only be one conversation, did you?” Roche shook his head, pulling the bucket up under an arm. “I expect it’ll be beatings and the heretic's fork. But keep your head up, Geralt; I’ll try not to be long.”

“Is this really the time for puns?”

Roche barked a laugh. “Didn’t notice. Nonetheless, keep up your spirits.”

“I’ll be lucky to be alive by the time you return.”

“Don't be dramatic.” Roche headed out the cell, his cock warm and spent in his trousers. He would sleep soundly tonight. “Until next we meet, witcher. Try not to provoke the guards into killing you while I'm not here to stop them.”

“I’ll do my best,” said Geralt dryly.

Roche left feeling moderately surer about Geralt’s innocence. The blowjob hadn’t swayed him; he wasn’t so weak as to be persuaded by such things, but he had become adept at gauging guilt during his time in the special forces and Geralt hadn’t the stink of a guilty man. He didn’t speak, nor act like one, and Roche didn’t think him a good enough actor to pull off that convincing a display of innocence. Nonetheless, he would need more time to think, to reflect on the information he had compiled. He wanted to do what was best for his country and his felled king.

And, his mind supplied against his will, if Geralt was permitted to live, he could find out later what other orifices Geralt would allow him to shove his cock into. Though that was a guilty thought, that certainly wouldn’t be an unwelcome bonus. He could use the stress relief. He was good at maintaining control – had been taught to do so while on the job, but that didn’t mean the occasional orgasm wouldn’t help him keep his head on straight, particularly in light of the loss of his king.

He sighed and dropped the bucket by the exit for someone else to deal with. If he couldn’t use Geralt, there were always other willing people. It wouldn’t be the same, though. The witcher got him worked up in a way no one else had in a long time. Even before all of this, he’d thought the man visually appealing, and he had a very nice voice, very unique. Only time would tell whether or not he would get to continue to indulge in it.

Until then, he had work to do. He always did.


End file.
